Chapter 38
I need a break.
Closing the journal, I stare at the dancing flames in the study fireplace—stunned, shaken, sick. Horrified by what I’ve read, I curl into myself and try to block the images.
A man committing murder. Here. At Maison Marteau.
And a child following in his bloody footsteps.
I glance over at the door, willing myself to remain seated. I don’t need to check again. I know it’s locked.
Though I feel the monster right here beside me, crawling from the pages of a killer’s diary.
But whose? What child wrote the journal? What father led them down the path of depravity?
I pick up the journal again. Even touching the book makes me feel filthy, makes me want to wash my hands. But I’m desperate to know whose story I’m reading.
The paper gives me no real clue. A singe mark darkens one page, as if someone once tried to burn the book. Whether they changed their mind or were stopped by another, exposure to flame yellowed the paper. It’s hard to tell how old the journal actually is.
The handwriting is no help either, the lettering plain and simple, neither masculine nor feminine. And the quality of the writer’s voice, plain and direct. The only thing I’m sure of is that they were young when they wrote the journal. Too young to attend an adult party.
My stomach rolls as I picture a child watching their father do such terrible things.
And being thrilled by the sadism.
A long, torturous moment passes before I’m able to open to the last page I read.
Swallowing against nausea, I focus on the identity of the child. Proficiency in English is point of pride in the Marteau family. Any one of them could have written this journal.
Except Chantal. She married into the family, so she couldn’t be the author.
That leaves Vincent, Ric, and Lyam.
No. I can’t let my emotions or feelings for anyone affect my judgment. This journal could belong to Luci or even Dora. Almost everyone at this mansion had a father who was born a Marteau.
Even Noah.
I read the word strapped and a shudder wracks my body.
“Nooo.” I tuck my chin to my chest and reach out for Clairee. The little cat is my only source of comfort on this cold, cruel day.
The rain has only worsened, blurring the windows and blackening the sky.
Turning the page, I prepare myself for whatever shock comes next. One hand still on Clairee, I lift the journal, the front half pinched between my fingers.
A folded paper falls from the back and drops into my lap.
Setting the book on the end table, I open the paper. Handwritten notes on front and back. The first line is a nail hammered in my spine.
Someone is coming into the apartment.
My eyes quickly skim the rest of the page. There’s mention of the journal being left in the kitchen, Ric’s creepy and inappropriate behavior, and near the bottom a question.
Should I tell Luci?
There’s no doubt in my mind. Rose wrote these notes. She must have stuck the paper in the journal before hiding it behind the trunk.
I flip the paper over to keep reading.
But a sound comes from above my head. A single high-pitched groan that cuts off in an instant.
The creak of floorboards.
My heart climbs in my throat.
Seconds pass in heavy silence. And then I hear it again—two soft thuds and another creak.
Someone is walking across the floor.
Upstairs.
A droning hum fills my ears, panic and blood pressure straining my veins. Immobilized, I stare at the ceiling, tracking the movement. Not directly above, but out in the corridor.
Another step. Two. Whoever it is, they’re moving toward the stairs.
I lunge for the fireplace tools. Every piece made of iron. Black and heavy. I rip the poker free but end up knocking the stand over, tools clattering on the marble hearth.
Clairee startles awake.
Fire poker in hand, I look upward. My lungs heave with terrified breaths and my heart is an urgent gallop in my chest.
The footsteps land faster and with less caution, moving down the hallway. Back the way they came.
I listen until I can no longer hear anything, then I break from the daze. I grab my phone and dial 911 before I remember I’m in France.
What’s the emergency number here? What is it? What is it?
The numbers pop into my head, so I stab 112 on the screen. A robotic voice answers in French. I hear words that sound like excuse and minutes.
I hold out my phone and stare wide-eyed. “What the hell?” This is supposed to be instant assistance.
Then I remember the strikes. And the protests.
The emergency call center must be overwhelmed.
“What do I do?” I talk out loud as if someone will hear me. A self-comforting act as I stand in the study, waiting to hear footsteps running down the stairs, coming for me.
Eventually, fear turns to something else. Closing my phone, I slip it in my pocket as a burning sense of self-preservation drives me from the study. I walk across the landing and pause by the balustrade.
I look up, waiting to see or hear activity. I wait another minute, and then slowly sneak up the steps. Remembering the sounds, I visualize the route the intruder took. Across the center area and down the hallway. But to where?
Using the poker, I ease open the doors to the third-floor rooms. All of them are empty. To be safe, I check under beds and in bathrooms. No one. Whoever was here is gone.
But how did they get out? How are they accessing the apartment? Coming and going at will?
Coming back out to the landing, I glance around, wondering how many times they’ve entered my space. To leave a copy of Carmilla. To stand in the shadows. To watch me sleep.
The idea rattles me to the core, and I know I can’t sit down or relax. I can’t spend another minute—let alone another night—in this apartment. Not until I figure out how they’re getting in.
Whoever they are.
Glancing around the top level, I notice another door. One that didn’t occur to me right away, because it’s concealed, hidden in the paneling.
Of course.
The door to the hidden staircase.
Clenching my elbows tight to my sides, I use both hands and readjust my grip on the poker, the iron slick from my sweaty palm. Crossing to the panel, I push in and let it pop back out.
The panel brushes over the floor, soft as a sigh.
I let out a gasp, because I recognize the sound. Like a whispered, “Hush.”
I heard it my first night in the apartment, when I was coming down the stairs.
They’ve been coming inside since the very first night.
Ignoring the prickle of unease, I study the plain, wooden steps before me. I’ve only used these stairs once before, the day the cobwebs and spider ran me out. I never made it to the basement. I never checked the door.
But the sounds came from up here. From the top floor. That would mean . . .
Leaning into the darkness, I tilt my head and look up. Stairs to the attic. When Luci gave me a tour, she told me the basement door was double-locked.
But she never mentioned the attic.
Pulling out my phone, I turn on the flashlight and creep upward, cringing each time I take a step. Expecting a creak to give me away. I feel cold and hot at the same time, as if every nerve ending is out of whack.
Dread fills my gut like curdled milk, but I need to push on. I need to know.
Once I reach the door, I stay quiet, certain the intruder is on the other side. Listening, waiting to ambush me. When I can stand it no longer, I grip the old brass knob. Turn. And push.
The door moans as it opens, swinging freely into the shadows. Not barred by a lock from either side.
Anyone from the main house can walk right in.
My phone pings in my hand. I startle so hard I almost drop it but manage to clench it in my fingers before it falls.
Pulling the attic door shut, I hurry down to my apartment, close the panel, and lean against the wall.
I check my phone. Another push notification. Opening the app, I find a message waiting for me. From Alice.
But when I read her message, the world bottoms out. And everything I know is turned upside down.